The French Powder Mystery
- Автор: Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Серия: Ellery Queen #2
- Год: 1930
- Язык: английский
- Год: Frederick A. Stokes
- Жанр: Классические детективы
Электронная книга - «The French Powder Mystery». Краткое содержание книги:
“I’ve — been — on — the — trail — of — Bernice Carmody!” whispered Crouther in a vibrant bass voice.
“Oh!” The Inspector was patently disappointed. He regarded Crouther morosely. “Is that all? I’ve got a squad of my best men on the same job, Crouther.”
“Well,” said Crouther, leaning back and flicking ashes on the carpet, “I didn’t exactly expect you to kiss me at that statement, Inspector, that’s a fact... But,” his voice lowered cunningly again, “I’ll bet your men didn’t get what I got!”
“Oh, you got something, did you?” asked the Inspector quickly. “Now, that is news, Crouther. Sorry I was so hasty... Just what is it you’ve dug up?”
Crouther leered triumphantly. “The trail of the girl out of the city!”
Ellery’s eyes flicked with sincere surprise. “You got that far, did you?” He turned to his father with a smile. “That seems to be one on Velie, dad.”
The Inspector looked disgruntled and curious at the same time. “I’ll be hanged for a rascal!” he muttered. “How did you do it, and what’s the dope exactly, Crouther?”
“It was this way,” said Crouther promptly, crossing his legs and puffing smoke into the air. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. “I’ve worked all along — with due respect to you and your boys, Inspector — on the idea that this Bernice Carmody was done away with. Kidnapped, murdered — I don’t know but somethin’ like that. I felt that she didn’t do the job, although the signs do point to her, and that’s a fact... So I took the liberty of snoopin’ around the French house last night and seeing what I could see about how the girl got out of the place. Saw this housekeeper up there and she told me what she told you, I guess. Don’t mind, Inspector?... Anyway, I found out too about that ‘special’ who saw her walkin’ down the Drive toward 72nd Street. That set me going, and before I got stuck I’d traced her a long way. I found a cruising cab-driver who said he picked up a woman of her description on West End Avenue and 72nd. Private cab, it is; and I guess I was just lucky, that’s all. This whole business of trailing is part luck and part perspiration — fact, ain’t it, Inspector?”
“Ummh,” said the Inspector sourly. “You’ve certainly put one over on Tom Velie. What then? Get any more?”
“Sure did!” Crouther relit his cigar. “Driver took the girl to the Hotel Astor. She told him to wait for her. She went into the lobby and in about two minutes came out again with a tall blond man dressed kind of swell, and carrying a suitcase. They piled into the cab. Driver said the girl seemed kind of scared, but she didn’t say anything, and the tall man told him to take ’em for a drive through Central Park. In the Park, just about the middle, man tapped on the window and told the driver to stop — they were goin’ to get out. That was what made the driver kind of leery, anyway — couldn’t ever remember anybody payin’ off in the middle of the Park. But he didn’t say anything, and the blond gent paid the fare and told him to drive off. He did, but not before he’d caught a look at the girl’s face. She was pale and sort of half-shot — looked drunk, he said. So he just moved off slow and careless, and kept his eyes open. And sure enough, he saw the pair of ’em go over to a parked car not fifty feet away, get in, and right away the car shot out of the Park goin’ uptown!”
“Well,” said the Inspector in a hushed voice, “that’s quite a story. We’ll have to look over this cab-driver... Did he catch the license-number of the car?”
“Too far away,” said Crouther, scowling for an instant. Then his face cleared. “But he wasn’t too far away to spot the fact that it had a Massachusetts license-plate.”
“Excellent, Crouther, excellent!” cried Ellery suddenly, springing to his feet. “Thank goodness some one has kept his head about him! What kind of car was it — did your man see?”
“Yep,” grinned Crouther, expanding under the praise. “Closed car — sedan — dark blue — and a Buick. How’s that?”
“Mighty nice work,” said the Inspector grudgingly. “How did the girl act on the trip over to the other automobile?”
“Well, the driver couldn’t see so well,” said Crouther, “but he did tell me that the girl sort of stumbled and the tall man grabbed her arm and sort of forced her.”
“Slick, slick!” muttered the Inspector. “Did he catch a glimpse of the driver in the closed car?”
“Nope. But there must have been some one in the Buick, because our man says the couple climbed into the back, and then the car streaked it right out of the Park.”
“How about this tall blond man, Crouther?” asked Ellery, puffing furiously at his cigaret. “We should be able to get a fairly complete description of him from the taxicab driver!”
Crouther scratched his head. “Never thought of askin’ the guy,” he confessed. “Here, Inspector — how about your boys taking it up from where I’ve left off? I got plenty of work at the store, now that things are shot to pieces down there... Want this driver’s name and address?”
“Certainly.” The Inspector wrestled inwardly with a spiritual problem as Crouther wrote out the name and address. When the store detective handed it to him it was evident that virtue had won, for he smiled weakly and stretched cut his hand. “Let me congratulate you, Crouther. That was a good night’s work!”
Crouther pumped the Inspector’s hand up and down heartily, grinning. “Glad to help, Inspector — that’s a fact. Just goes to prove that us boys on the outside do know a thing or two, eh? I always say—”
The doorbell trilled, relieving the Inspector of the embarrassment of having his hand held. Ellery and the old man looked at each other for a fleeting instant. Then Ellery sprang toward the door.
“Expecting company, Inspector?” asked Crouther broadly. “Don’t want to butt in. I guess I’d better—”
“No, no, Crouther, stay right where you are! I have an idea you may come in handy,” called Ellery rapidly, as he made for the door in the anteroom.
Crouther beamed and sat down again.
Ellery threw open the door. Westley Weaver, his hair rumpled, a worried look on his face, walked hurriedly into the apartment.
27
The Sixth Book
Weaver shook hands all round, expressed surprise at the presence of Crouther — who shuffled his feet awkwardly and grinned — rubbed his face with one nervous hand, and then sat down, waiting. He eyed the Inspector apprehensively.
Ellery, noting this, smiled. “No cause for neurosis, Wes,” he said gently. “This isn’t quite a third degree. Have a cigaret, make yourself comfortable, and listen for a moment.”
They drew chairs around the table. Ellery looked at his fingernails thoughtfully.
“We’ve been muddling over those books I picked up on the desk in French’s apartment,” he began. “And we’ve discovered some interesting things there.”
“Books?” exclaimed Crouther in a bewildered way.
“Books?” echoed Weaver, but his tone was flat and unconvincing.
“Yes,” repeated Ellery, “books. The five volumes that you saw me puzzling over. Westley,” and he looked full into the young man’s eyes, “I have an idea that somewhere at the back of your mind is a lump of information that we can use. Information about these volumes. To be perfectly frank, I noticed a queer hesitancy on your part when I first got my hooks into them. Just what are your scruples — if you have any — about this story I’ve laid to you — if there is a story?”
Weaver flushed violently, began to stammer. “Why, Ellery, I never—”
“Look here, Wes.” Ellery leaned forward. “There’s something on your mind. If it’s Marion, let me tell you here and now that none of us has the slightest suspicion of the girl. There may be something behind her nervous attitude, but whatever it is, it isn’t criminal, and probably has little to do directly with the murder of Mrs. French... Does that sweep away any scruples in your mind?”